


Black Powder Sacrament

by anamuan



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Fetch Quest, Gen, Homesickness, Qun, Tea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-12
Updated: 2018-07-12
Packaged: 2019-06-09 03:50:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15258783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anamuan/pseuds/anamuan
Summary: Four years, denied Par Vollen. There is but one joy in the Arishok's life as he searches and he waits.





	Black Powder Sacrament

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lionheart](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lionheart/gifts).



> Many thanks to lionheart for the inspiration and the beta

Four years, denied Par Vollen. Four years in this cesspit of a city, an exemplar of the worst of what life away from the Qun is like. This city, all of it, leaves a bad taste. There is but one joy in the Arishok's life as he searches and he waits. He has but one taste of the home he is barred from.

The tea sold in Kirkwall is the same. They are forced to _buy_ it, to pay for it with currency like some worthless bas, but it is a necessary evil until the demands of the Qun can be satisfied.

For the Arishok, it is like a ritual.

Ashaad is dispatched every week, after the tea merchant has had time to receive, organize and shelve his shipments. Enough tea is purchased for each member of the Beresaad to enjoy for the upcoming week.

Upon Ashaad's return, a sample of the tea is brought to the Arishok to inspect the quality. (Others are assigned to check the whole lot for hidden dangers. They are in hostile territory and must never forget it. The Arishok expects few in this city have the skill to do significant harm to their force, but the bas cannot be trusted. What they cannot do directly, the weak and worthless may attempt to do by poison). Ashaad knows better than to accept inferior tea, full of broken leaves, but the Arishok savours his role in this, providing comfort to his army just as he provides order and direction. They are, after all, one and the same: duty a comfort, and comfort a duty.

The Arishok untwists the paper packet holding the sample carefully, mindful of his claws against the delicate paper. The aromatic scent of the tea wafts up to him like a fragment of home as he tips the tightly rolled pellets into his palm: cool and dry and fragrant, like the respite from the heat on a summer's day. It is good. It is right.

In the mornings, at the appropriate time, the gate to the Qunari compound is barred and none are permitted entry. The appropriate number of pellets is measured carefully into every cup, a strange, salvaged collection of vessels. None are proper Qunari tea cups: none were able to be rescued from the debris of their ship, and none can be found in this fetid city. But the Qun demands that they stay, so they stay. The cups they have are all too small, but they will suffice.

Water is boiled and distributed amongst the ranks. The Arishok receives his last, as is proper. Water is poured over the tea and the Arishok gives his attention over to it.

The bas seem to think that pleasure is prohibited by the Qun. They understand nothing! The cups are too small, but it is a pleasure to watch the tea leaves along the bottom unfurl in the hot water, unfolding like sleepy dragonlings. It is pleasing to watch as the color curls off the leaves and permeates the water, as the Qun permeates all aspects of a good life, as the Qun will permeate the world, unfurling from the instruction of the Ariqun and carried into polluted lands by the Beresaad and the Ben Hassrath.

Curls of steam rise from the cup, the soothing, almost smoky scent of the tea drawn up with it. It's a different scent when it’s steeping, but both remind the Arishok of home, of a good life, of the Qun. The scent and the taste of the first sip transport the Arishok. They are as good as the feel of the earth under his feet, trembling with the step of a thousand strong warriors. They are as good as the sound of Qunlat spoken without the background commotion of these docks and their revolting representation of a life without purpose.

For the duration of one savoured cup of tea, the Arishok is whole.

*

Ashaad returns with a report and without a small piece of home wrapped in a twist of paper. The tea merchant complains of the storm that battered the coast two nights past and a delayed shipment. He does not have their usual portion. He does not have their usual quality. There is no new stock.

He tries to sell Ashaad inferior product, the leftover dregs that no one would take two weeks ago, but at more than double the cost of their usual purchase. Ashaad requests a small group of Karasaad and Karasten to return with him and repay the insult.

The Arishok, sorely tempted, must deny this request. They are trapped in this festering city for a purpose. They cannot afford to lose focus with petty distractions, however offensive. Ashaad is deployed again, to watch the tea merchant. When the shipment arrives, purchase the usual amount for no more than the usual price.

To another tea merchant, Ashaad is dispatched to make enquiries. The first merchant has proven dishonorable. Perhaps it is time to secure another supply.

*

The days drag on. They endure duty without comfort, an impossibility, for duty and comfort are one and the same. It is a perversion of life. Sometimes the Qun demands perseverance. They persist, without the ritual, without the only remnants of Par Vollen the Arishok had left. Without the caffeine.

The gates are not barred every morning. No pellets are measured by proper portion into every cup or mug. No water is boiled, nor is it distributed amongst the ranks. The Arishok cannot watch the Qun permeate the world, as is their duty, and their comfort.

The Arishok finds his temper fraying more quickly, his ability to tolerate these bas and their filthy ways of life diminished. They are no better than animals, giving themselves over to their baser passions constantly. The city is a blight upon the world, its existence an insult to the Qun itself!

The one called Hawke comes to the compound then. It is the time for the distribution of the hot water, but there is no tea again today. The gates are not barred, and so she is permitted entry. The one called Hawke is the only bas in this mire who has shown the slightest potential, but her face reminds the Arishok of the city beyond the gates of their compound.

Of the tea merchant who tried to sell them broken twigs for the price of twice the tea they could store. Of the short mouth who plagued their compound for the gaatlok. Of the bas who roam this city with only selfish intent in their hearts and _nothing_ of value. _They_ are permitted to come and go freely, but the Arishok is denied Par Vollen! Stuck here, in a city that exists only to defile itself and the people trapped in it, built upon the backs of filth by the even more worthless. It is an insult that cannot be borne.

"Not now, Hawke," the Arishok says, dismissing the human. It is not a good time.

*

Ashaad has returned with a report. The first merchant's ship has arrived. There is little cargo. Most became wet during the storm and spoiled. There will be no tea from his shop. It is not Ashaad's fault the bas is without purpose or value. "You have done your duty well," the Arishok tells him.

Ashaad has returned with a report. The other merchant's ship has arrived. It was not caught in the same storm, and the tea is plentiful and of good quality. Ashaad has secured a sample for the Arishok, wrapped in a twist of paper.

The Arishok tears the paper, not mindful enough of his claws. The rolled pellets spill out into his hand, dry and smooth in his palm. The color is shiny and dark, like gaatlok. The scent is fine and fragrant, lingering in the Arishok's nose like the smell of breakfast in the barracks in Qunandar. He breathes deeply to savor it. "Ashaad, you have done your duty well," the Arishok tells him. "Secure enough for every one to have two cups each morning this week. Karashok will find a way to store the additional amount."

*

The Arishok is about to give the order to bar the gates when the one called Hawke comes again to the compound. It is not yet time. The Arishok permits her entry. She approaches the dais.

"What do you want, Hawke, I have no intention of adding to my distraction." It is nearly time.

"I have something for you, actually," Hawke says. The Arishok gestures for her to continue, then freezes. Could it be? The end of his search? The idea is almost too ridiculous to be entertained, but the smallest glimmer of hope still raises its head in the Arishok's chest. With it comes an equal part of shame should it be true—that the Arishok could only succeed in his mission—could only fulfill the demands of the Qun—with the aid of a human bas, even one with as much worth as Hawke.

"I believe this belongs to your people." She reaches into her pack and pulls out....a tea set, a real one, from home: cup and lid together, whole, undamaged. It is finely made from dragon horn, strong and graceful of material and design. It is not what the Qun demands.

The Arishok gestures for Ashaad to move forward and receive the set. It is brought to the Arishok for inspection, but he sets it to the side. It does not require inspection.

The Arishok raises his hand to her, a benediction, but the sun has reached the bottom of the compound gates. It is time. It becomes a gesture of farewell. "Panahedan, Hawke. I do not wish you die."

*

The gates are barred. The tea is measured into each cup. The water is boiled, and distributed amongst the ranks. The Arishok receives his last, as is proper. The hot water pours over the measure of tea in the bottom of his cup and he sets the black dragon horn lid over the top, the better to let the tea steep. In his cup, though he cannot see it, the tea permeates the water, as the Qun permeates a good life. Curls of steam rise into the air, and the Arishok drinks in the scent of the tea, strong and graceful, like the Antaam in formation.

It is a good gift, one worthy of the name of Hawke.


End file.
